


There You Have Me

by Catchclaw



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Force Bond (Star Wars), Post-Star Wars: The Last Jedi, Schmoop, Worshipful Ben
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-27
Updated: 2018-01-27
Packaged: 2019-03-10 05:27:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13495836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: Sometimes it happens like this, when neither of them is ready, when each is awash in the details of everyday life.





	There You Have Me

The first time he goes to his knees, she won’t let him get up.

They’re in a barn newly pitched amid a sea of plowed earth. There’s nothing growing in the fields yet, but there will be soon, when the rains come. For now, Rey’s rebel kin are roaming the rough hills in the sunshine, tucking seeds into living earth. They’re laughing out there, Ben can hear them; calling to each other as they move up and down the rows, working together to build a new life. 

That’s what the Rebellion is doing here, on this colony, on a world last inhabited when the Old Republic was still young: rebuilding.

He knows where they are, more or less—far enough from the hyperspace lanes so as to be on nobody’s radar, deep enough on the Rim to make any search and destroy mission an expensive prospect, not to mention a long one. And this isn’t the only colony they’re building. He’s sure of it. 

But it doesn’t matter. The only thing of consequence on this far-flung rock is her.

She’s got a small spade in her hand when she turns to see him approaching; a packet of seed tied to her waist that scatters when he grabs her and buries his face in her hair. She drops the spade and winds her arms around his body, hugs him hard and tight.

“Hi,” she says. 

He breathes in the smell of clean sweat and fresh air. “Hello, Rey.”

Sometimes it happens like this, when neither of them is ready, when each is awash in the details of everyday life. She’s been at work all afternoon, that much is apparent. Her loose bandeau and trousers are stained with earth; her hair is astray and her shoulders bare, the tops of her breasts freckled and damp with exertion. And he—where she is rough edges, he is sleek: dressed in high Imperial black, polished from his throat to his boots, even the whisper of a cape at his back.

“I'm on my way to Magus II,” he says, as her fingers trace the firm ebony lines of his collar. “A meeting with the Council. I wasn’t expecting—”

“I don’t care what you were doing,” she says. “I’m just glad that you’re here.”

There’s a small, hot sound in his mouth and he lets her taste it; turns his tongue over hers and tugs her as close he can because they’ve learned—oh Maker, have they—not to let any opportunity to touch pass them by. The door between them, the bridge, it swings open on its own whim and it could be weeks before they’ll see each other again. Who knows? Perhaps one day, the door won’t open at all. 

He’d been in the anteroom on his shuttle when he’d felt the warm breeze of her world on the back of his neck, and though only one door separated from him from his pilots, from the rest of the universe, he’d turned without hesitation and slid like a needle from the dark to the light. 

Now, in the barn, still wound together, they shift, sketch an unspoken dance away from the open doorway and into the sunny dust shadows that will shield them from prying eyes.

She knows where she wants him, leads him there blind: a fat bundle of cloth near the back wall, low and wide like a bale of cut hay. When her heels strike it, she falls back, brings him with her, and he kneels over her body, licks the damp from her skin, his idiot cape beating at the air as she scrabbles at the front of his tunic, searching for the catch.

“Take this off,” she says. 

He reaches up and frees his cape; earns himself the blunt scratch of her nails.

“No,” she says, her voice full of bite. “Open this. I want to touch you.”

He cups her breast, one delicious swell, and kisses her again, drinks down every shiver. “No,” he says. “Not right now. I want—”

He lets her go, lets himself fall. Lands on the floor at her feet.

“What are you doing?”

He pets the rose of heat between her legs, lets his gloved fingers linger. “I want to touch you. Here, with, ah”—his bravado fails him and he blushes, tucks his cheek against her knee—“like we talked about. With my mouth.”

She raises her head, her face alight with surprise. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure. If you are. If it’s still something you want.” He strokes her again and feels her stir, hears her gasp. “Can I?” 

She closes her eyes and her spine ripples for him like a snake. "Mmm. Yes.” 

He finds the edge of her trousers and eases them down slow, slow slow; gives her every opportunity to object, to change her mind, to kick him away. Instead, as soon as her legs are free, the fabric pulled clear of her sandals, she makes a low, hungry sound and spreads herself for him: first her thighs and then her folds, her slim, callused fingers slipping through dark, dampened curls and showing herself to him, the pink, the dark, the sweet. 

“Come on then,” she says, her face pointed at the rafters, her flesh trembling under his palms, “kiss me here.”

She tastes like saltwater, like unspoken rain, and it scares him, how hungry he is for her; how easy it is to close his eyes and lose himself in the rise and fall of her hips, the exquisite twitch of her clit, the steady wet of her cunt and his own spit, as they peel over his chin. He slides his hands beneath her and cups her cheeks in his palms and even through the leather he can feel how soft she is here, how strong, her muscles shifting beneath skin that stays hidden from the sun.

Then her fingers are in his hair, yanking, guiding, holding—

“Oh,” she cries, "oh, Maker, Ben, _Ben_ —!”

—and suddenly she’s pressing her cunt wide against his mouth, his grin, and coming for him, fierce; no sound now, no scream, as if it’s taking all her energies to ride out the heat of his mouth, and he slows his tongue, breathes her in, leans into her hands just to feel her pull him back, hold.

“No,” she says. “No, don’t go. Don’t stop.”

His whole body shudders. “You want more?"

“Mmmmm.” The tension in her shifts and she leans up on her elbows, stares down at him, dazed. “But take your gloves off. I want to feel you inside of me. Flesh to flesh.”

In a moment, his gloves are on the ground, lost somewhere in the dirt, and she’s wound around his fingers like a kite, trembling with each flick of the wind. He bows his head and licks her again, sucks, and she laughs, the sound of her joy, high and free, lifting to the rafters and back.

“That feels—” she gets out. “That feels so good, I can’t—”

When he raises his eyes, her smile is a parsec wide and aimed straight at him, as if all that she is, all that she wants to be can be found in his face. She’s a comet caught in the same orbit as he, the one that carries him to her, towards her, every moment of every day. They’re bound in a way that’s both essential and unknowable and she’s never more so to him than when she's like this, when the crest of her pleasure is approaching and he is its ever-willing cause.

“Oh,” she says, her voice still flush with joy. “Come on. Faster. Move your fingers in me faster. Yes, like that. Oh, just like that. Please.” 

He groans, a sound that makes her whole pussy shake, and when he dares look again, her head’s fallen back and the long line of her throat has gone red, a rush of color that sneaks under the cloth crossed over her chest and Maker, what he wouldn’t give to her have bare, to have his cock caught in her softness, working its way through her wet.

Not here, he tells himself. Not like this. Somewhere they could have each other and sleep and fuck again; where they could turns their backs on the universe from the safety of each other’s arms.

She scrabbles at his arm, the one that’s canted under her back—“My hand,” she pants. “Please. Hold my hand”—and when she comes this time, it’s with their palms pressed together, with him inside her, around her, lapping at the tremors that seep up from her hips like a warm, hidden spring.

He lays his cheek on her thigh, winded, and they stay like that for a hundred heartbeats, then two, listening to the cheerful sound of the wind, the distant shouts of her comrades at work far out in the fields.

When he can, he eases his fingers free and crawls up her body, stretches himself at her side, and before he can settle, she’s turned over him, kissing him, licking at the lines of his smile and sucking herself from his tongue.

She hums against his mouth, thoughtful. “You haven’t come.”

His cock lurches pointedly. “I’m aware," he says.

Her hand slips over his leathers, lingers. “Mmmm. You’re very hard.”

He strangles a growl. “Of course I am. You just came all over my face.”

“Twice.”

“Twice,” he grits. “Yes.”

She pets at the angry arch of his shaft. “So what you’d really like,” she says, with no small note of delight, “is for me to take this out.” 

“Rey. Don’t.”

“Take it out and pull you on top of me, right?” She squeezes, just the right side of too hard. “Come on. You do want that, don’t you, Ben?”

He bares his teeth, glares, because he’s not going to come like this. No. Fully dressed, not a stitch of skin exposed to her except his face and his hands. He won’t. She can’t—

“Or maybe,” she says, mocking thoughtful, “you’d rather have me on top of you.”

He closes his eyes and shoves himself into her hand. Helpless.

“And wet as I am, as wet as you’ve made me”—a tease of a kiss—“this’ll slip right into me, won’t it?”

“Is that what you want?” he says, strangled. “My cock inside you?”

“Oh, yes.” She snatches his wrist and drives his hand down, rubs herself against his palm. Whispers: “But do you think that you’ll fit?”

“Oh _fuck_.” Something in him snaps, the last thread of sense, and he hears himself snarl: “Yes. Your pretty cunt will take all of me. I know it will. You’ll see, Rey, you’ll—”

She kisses his cheek, her mouth ablaze with amusement, and he knows why: because for all his bravado, all his bark, he’s the one at her mercy; the one splayed on his back like a beetle, the one whose body is pliant sand under her hands. “Will I?” she tsks. “Well then. Show me.”

He fumbles to open his trousers and he knows it’s a losing battle, he knows, but it doesn’t stop him from trying, from tugging himself open enough for her to pull him free, for him to feel how hot his skin is, how eager he is for her cool fingers to swallow his heat, stoke it.

"I think I remember how lovely you are," she says, "but then when I see you, it feels like I’ve forgotten.” She turns a thumb over the crown and he whines, the pleasure too heady, too much. “Oh, my dear. Look at you."

“Yes,” he spits. “ _Yes_.”

She leans over and puts her lips to his ear, her magnificent hand still working. “My beautiful Ben,” she says. “Look how ready you are for me.”

He loses it wild like a boy, shouting, spurting again when she kisses him, when he can taste the shape of her smile.

He dozes a little, maybe; for when he raises his head, the sun has slipped across the floor and the light beyond the door is dimmer, cooler, the first hint of sunset. She’s curled against him, her head on his chest, her shoulders turned under his arm.

“I liked that,” he says.

She chuckles. “Obviously.”

“No, I mean”—he stumbles—”yes, but I meant, before. When I was on the floor. I liked doing that." 

“I liked you doing it, too."

He turns his burning face into her hair. “I’d have stayed on my knees all day, if that’s what you wanted.”

She touches his throat, nuzzles the sweat on his neck. “No. I want you at my side.”

He clutches her waist. Holds her close. “There you have me.”

Her voice is softer now, like sunshine cut with shadow. “There will always be a place for you here.”

He reaches for her, finds her mouth, and already he can feel her slipping away, can smell again the stale air of his ship.

“No,” he says, furious. “No, no. Don’t go. Not yet.”

It’s the Force, ready to snatch him, to shove him back through the slip of space and return him to his rightful place. Or the one that’s supposed to be. He used to be so certain that it was. But now, each time he’s pulled away from her, he feels less certain when he returns; his footing, his sense of purpose, far less sure.

Her hands find his face and he's sure that she can sense it, the way the edges of his body are blurring, the way this time together is bleeding away, and for a moment, now, he would give anything he has, anything he’s gained to remain with her, to stay here and be hers and let the rest of the universe spin and unwind as it will. Someone else’s hand will find the tether, surely; someone else’s ambition will find focus, someone else’s dream will supersede the one he’s carried with him his whole life, a bitter seed whose fruit is now his for the asking and yet, and yet, what he craves is here in his arms, in the eaves of sunshine, not somewhere in the cold dead of space.

She doesn’t say goodbye. She never does. Instead, she leans back until their eyes meet and then she whispers, firm and clear:

“You will come back to me, Ben.”

****

 

He's on his shuttle again, sprawled in the small bay behind the bridge.

There’s come on his trousers and he’s missing his cape and her taste is still rich on his lips and one day, they’re going to get caught; one day, Hux will see dirt on his boots that shouldn’t be there or one of Rey’s rebel kin will hear the slap of their skin and what’s only theirs now will be known. What then?

Somewhere, Ben knows, the Rebellion is rebuilding and what of him when their new world is done?

 _There will always be a place for you here_.

He climbs to his feet and gathers himself. Presses a palm to the bulkhead. 

There’s one door between left between them. Two pilots, easily dispatched. He’s lightyears from the main fleet and with a minimal escort; five minutes of well-placed cannon fire and then he’ll out here be alone. A dozen more hours in hyperspace and then, before him, will be the rest of his life: her hand outstretched as the seeds beyond them fall asleep in the sun and bank their energy for the winter, for the long, fierce struggle ahead.

One door left between them. Just one.

Her voice again, in his ear: _I want you at my side_.

He reaches for the latch. Whispers: “And there you’ll soon have me.”

**Author's Note:**

> Maybe one day I'll write plot for these two. Today is not that day.
> 
> Come say hi on the [tumblr machine](http://catchclaw.tumblr.com/).


End file.
